Time of His Life

Andy Duggan



He sits in his favorite chair,
his arms hang down by his side
like pendulous pendulums.
His fingertips, like his lips
are slightly blue.

His intricate workings, his mechanisms,
have ceased to tick.
His is wound down,
broken.

The radio whispers in his ear,
unheeded.
The milk sits on the doorstep,
uncollected.
They begin to smell,
this man and his milk.

He wasn't found
when his family didn't come to visit him.


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